


What We Intend (or Invent)

by cardwrecks



Series: Kissing Death [1]
Category: Homestuck, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blood, Guns, M/M, Magic, Stalking, Torture, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-14 12:27:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9181669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardwrecks/pseuds/cardwrecks
Summary: It is in coming to know Pickle Inspector that you realize he could be something a little better. Something a little more like you.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this several years ago and completely forgot about it. Dusted it off and fixed it up a little, and here we are.

There is a dull ache you associate with simply being alive. It used to be be worse, you vaguely recall, but you can't really remember just by how much anymore. You can only hazily recollect that the world was once brighter, and louder, and

 

_**messier,** _

 

and that you had spent your days between wanting an end to your pain, and wanting to spread it.

 

Your name is Diamonds Droog and you suppose things could be worse.

 

If you had to define yourself in as few words as possible, you would say that you are a man of class. There is an element of exclusion to it that you particularly enjoy, a balance of skill and intuition that separates the prolific from the pretenders. You cannot _stand_ a desperate show-off. You much prefer the smug assurance of ability kept secret, which is why Spades Slick controls the crew and its holdings, and you control Spades Slick. 

 

Usually that translates to mitigation, taking his loaded gun and aiming it in the direction of your choice.  _Lately_ , however, that has meant spurring him into acts as mundane as knifing a squeal. You've never had to  _encourage_ Slick to violence a body before. It has you a little worried, by which you mean it is grinding at your patience and your teeth in a way that makes you want to snap your cuestick against Slick's face before visiting the dentist. 

 

You're smart enough to know that hurting him won't help. That (in turn) makes you want to do it even more. Which is bothersome, to put it lightly. But Slick, while the core of your problem, is not the cause of it. That honor is reserved for Slick's pet detective, of whom you are not a particularly big fan.

 

He should have known better than to entangle himself with that side of the law so intimately, but of course he didn't. Or he did, and went and fucked him anyway. ...yes, that sounds more like Slick to you. It's not the fucking part that is your problem. As far as you are concerned, Slick can fuck whoever he likes, from Sn0wman to Sleuth to old man Scratch himself. No, _your_ issue with the dog-faced moron is that he had to go and _fall in love_ with the enemy.

 

The very idea of it makes your skin crawl. It's _disgusting,_ the whole idea of it. You would rather fellate your gun and pull the trigger before submitting yourself to even the merest whisper of the desperation and weakness of the love Slick's playing at. He knows you think he's a shithead for making hearts at Sleuth. You thought he was in over his shitty head with Sn0wman, but at least that was respectable. Sensible. Enough so that you minded your on business and butted out of his quadrants, in laytroll's terms.

 

This, though, you've made it clear you don't approve of.

 

So when Slick came in that morning before the sun worked itself up to showing its face on your midnight city, you could tell something had happened. He avoided your gaze, unusually smashed out of his mind, and missing more than a few of his knives. You knew it was time to intercede. You'd even do it without a single utterance of _I told you so_. No need to brag. You already knew you were right.

 

He doesn't say anything to you, just slumps into his room and shuts the door.

 

_Shuts._

 

Gently, quietly, _shuts._

 

...well, _now_ you're concerned.

 

* * *

 

You have no doings with Team Sleuth, excepting in situations involving guns. You have had no desire to amend this, and honestly, you still don't. But it's been a couple of days watching Slick _mope,_ and watching him mope is about the most pathetic thing you can do.

 

You do not want to approach Sleuth. You do not like him, or his stupid smile, or his oh-so-confident voice. In fact, those things make you want to run your cuestick through his eyes. All flash, no class. He and Slick are similar in that way. ...in a few ways, to be completely honest. Which is why you want nothing to do with him, even accounting for their various differences. ...no, not accounting. _Including._

 

And Ace Dick... well, Ace Dick was never an option.

 

So you, much like any other practiced predator, seek out the weak link.

 

* * *

 

Pickle Inspector is inspecting the pickle of which tea to take with lunch when you finally approach him. The restaurant he's visiting is without his regular blend, and terrible sorry for it, even going so far as to offer to cover the expense of whatever he chooses to try. That's no small thing, in your city dropped down into a wasteland. 

 

Pickle Inspector is a faithful patron of this tea house, and they always greet him with a smile he rather shakily returns. You suspect his waitress is nursing an infatuation with him.

 

Whatever there is to be enamored with in him, you do not see it.

 

The inspector is lank as a beanpole and though his clothes might appear clean, they are utterly nondescript. He is soft-spoken, but when he _does_ speak it is with a persistent stammer. He seems invested in politeness (another reason why you are here rather than with a different third of Team Sleuth), but eternally nervous, and though the root of his anxiety might very well be interesting to excavate, you have more pressing matters on your mind as you introduce yourself to his table. It is well-chosen, with a clear view of the establishment, though relatively secluded. There is no way he did not note your arrival unless he is an utter moron. As his eyes train on you, you decide this is likely not the case.

 

He is calm despite your intrusion, and this interests you just a tiny bit. You had assumed he would fold into a fitful mess upon seeing you, purpose in your steps, in a place he's so carefully staked out. You are not bragging when you claim to be a very scary man - not that you say it very often. You don't have to.

 

At most, though, Pickle Inspector seems dismayed. As if you are a raincloud over his picnic - unforeseen and unfortunate, but not enough to write home about. You'll have to fix that.

 

His eyes are clear as they meet yours and then look back down to his cup, hands caught in a tremor he can't seem to shake. He gives you the same smile he gave the waitress, which supports at least one aspect of your original estimation of him. His grip on reality is not so tight. Does he think you are a mere hallucination? What would it take to end that delusion?

 

Evidently, he is not far gone enough into his own head to ignore you, instead merely putting addressing you on hold for just a moment. He returns after a quick sojourn to steady his hands, folding them in his lap. “...wh-what are you _d_ oing, here,” He asks, the _d_ in _doing_ getting caught on his teeth for an instant that threatens to draw longer, but cuts mercifully short.

 

“Giving you a message,” You reply, “for Sleuth.”

 

His dismay seems more solid now, but he does not bother with surprise. He nods and looks down into his lap. “...about Slick,” He provides as prompting. He is glancing back up at you, watching you when you incline your head slightly.

 

“I trust you will remember to give it to him. I would be happy to write it down for you, if you think you'll forget.” You would like very much to write it down for him. He would find it _very_ difficult to forget. As would Sleuth. And the staff of whatever emergency room the inspector found himself in. But bloodless threats serve you better at the moment – they don't require payment in turn. If you harmed the inspector, Sleuth would come looking for you. Better to ward him off with ghosts, rather than to give him one to avenge. ...for now.

 

Pickle Inspector (what a ridiculous name, what a ridiculous man) shakes his head, fervently. “N-n-nnno,” he promises, “I'll r-r-remem...”

 

(you grit your teeth behind your lips)

 

“...remember,”

 

You know you've gotten to him, you think with grim satisfaction, because his speech has notably worsened. He looks paler too, but that's more difficult to see. He started out pretty pale. Unhealthily so, but most Prospitians look that way to you. “Wh-what would you l-like me, to tell him...?”

 

He's leaning back a little from you, as if that would save him. You toy with the idea of cracking your cuestick over his head, flipping the table between you, having him on his back and bleeding from the skull before the fine china could shatter across the floor.

 

“You tell him to stay the fuck away from Spades Slick.” You say, your malice planar, and snake out your hand.

 

Pickle Inspector holds his breath (you can see the still of his body from here) as you take his teacup and rest your lips upon its. You take a brief sip. White tea, with the slightest hint of jasmine. You touch the cup back down to its saucer as lightly as a butterfly claiming its perch on an open wound.

 

“Are we clear?”

 

His nod is frenetic.

 

You leave him with that, and his thoughts.

 

* * *

 

Slick finds out, of course. You knew he would. It breaks him out of his gloom and into a rage, which is something you are much more comfortable with. Boxcars holds him off the floor, Slick's legs kicking into nothing as Clubs hovers nearby, plainly worried. “You _sunufabitch_ I _told you to stick your nose outta my business!”_ That's the most coherent thing he says, and you respond to it with a shrug. It fails to calm him down.

 

* * *

 

Problem Sleuth isn't particularly calm either when you see him next, but you find this unremarkable. What you do remark on is Sleuth's thesis, which consists of essentially the same sentiment as Slick's protest ( _“Stay outta my business!”_ ) but of course focuses around your harassing his teammates. This you find interesting because it is particularly stupid.

 

Why he takes the time to spell out to you that his team is uninvolved with his involvement with Slick you cannot guess. Possibly because he thinks he will succeed in convincing you with his impressive Diplomatic Immunity and the threatanous way it fits in the curve of his hand. You admire the gun. It would look nice hanging above a mantle, possibly alongside Sleuth's head.

 

You do not waste your time asking Sleuth why he drew attention to his weakness by telling you to leave his boys alone. You instead think of how you are going to exploit it. It's evident by Sleuth's reaction that Pickle Inspector failed to convey the gravity of your message. 

 

You'll have to put that to rights.

 

* * *

 

Days turn to weeks, and Slick works to reclaim his old self. Six days after scolding you, you hear a thud in his room, the thick crack of wood beneath the blade of a knife, and then you hear it again. And again. And again. He is throwing them into the wall.

 

Seven days after being scolded, you go into his room while he is gone and find a picture of Sleuth nailed by knives to the plaster. It has seen better days. For your part, you've seen worse.

 

* * *

 

Pickle Inspector does not bother to change his habits after your intrusion of a little over a week ago.

 

He bumbles from one well-worn trail to the next through the city, picking up newspaper and coffee and occasional groceries.

 

(if they can be called that – you saw him stand at a fruit seller for about a half-hour, staring at the wooden sign hanging above the produce, until the clerk prompted him to buy something, after which he bumbled away with a bruised peach.)

 

It is your way to learn through observation, and it is in this way you come to know Pickle Inspector.

 

How he has managed to survive life to this point is a feat that astounds you.

 

He carefully conceals the truth of himself to the point where you had missed it at first, and you continued to miss it until you have been watching him on and off (mostly on, excluding the jobs you do – Pickle Inspector has become your pet project and you spare him plenty of time) for two months and some change.

 

He is operating on such a superficial level with the rest of the world that it cannot harm him. His fear is not of something in the world – pain, death, you – it is instead that he will be forced to _join it._

 

He has no friends outside of Team Sleuth. None. This is not remarkable for someone like you, who has no friends _period_ , but even you have allies. Even you have a network. Even you have occasional conversation partners you tolerate. People you smoke with in jazz clubs who have a sense of fashion you can appreciate. Sometimes, you read the newspaper or listen to the radio and come across voices you can respect.

 

Pickle Inspector has no such thing.

 

Pickle Inspector has witnesses.

 

The staff of the tea shop are as close as he comes, and even they are not friends to the solitary inspector. They do not know him any better than the other regulars of the establishment, which you know because you watch them when the fancy strikes you and you find that sometimes they talk about him to each other. Only sometimes. They know he is a detective. They know he likes black tea. They know who _you_ were when you came to speak with Pickle Inspector, and you are much more interesting of a conversation topic to them, and so you learn no more of what little they know of Pickle Inspector.

 

The young lady who appeared to have an infatuation with Pickle Inspector proved to have those feelings, but not for Pickle Inspector. She is infatuated with someone who looks like Pickle Inspector, sits where Pickle Inspector sits when Pickle Inspector arrives, and orders the same things as Pickle Inspector, but it is not a Pickle Inspector you have developed an interest in. She has created her own Pickle Inspector, and he is much more dashing. There is nothing you can learn from her. In fact, there is nothing you can learn about Pickle Inspector from any of the people in his life.

 

At least, not without kidnapping someone in Team Sleuth, which is not impossible, but you haven't gotten quite that desperate. Or desperate at all, in fact. In fact, you are so un-desperate that you decide to sit on the situation for a short while and consider what you know and do not know about Pickle Inspector. That's when you finally hear back from your informant about PI's Prospitian citizenship and history.

 

* * *

 

During the war Derse often played the role of aggressor.

 

What that means nowadays depends on where in Midnight City the definition is being explored, but overall, the culture created after the survivors of the conflict reconvened in Slick's playground of a city favors those from Derse – at least, while Dersites are present. When it's only weirdly pale faces in a room, who knows what goes on. Probably a lot of crying and oil-slick black eyes blinking creepily at each other. Something like that.

 

The city is mostly integrated, but history isn't a dead thing, and it came creeping back after surviving the desert switched from possibility to reality. With civilization came civilized mistrust and the complicated business of living. Mixed families and mixed-up hearts and histories couldn't erase the battles and bloodshed and lives ended, but it helped that loss was present on both sides, and was propagated mostly by the respective royal families.

 

Which brings you back to your original point – Derse was often the aggressor, but when Prospit had something up its sleeves, Derse suffered great losses. Those sleeves belonged to the deep science teams of innovators who were locked in their think tanks (literally, according to your informant) and came up with the weapons to fight back with.

 

Derse was never very creative (there wasn't much value held for the lowly imagination stat in Her Majesty's Royal Army Corps and most creative types got shunted off to farms and civic services to teach them the value of discipline or something like that), but unfortunately for Prospit, the teams of Derse were quick studies. Ultimately, Derse “won” the war (and lost the moons), but for a while it hadn't been so sure a thing.

 

And, according to your contact, that was thanks to the efforts of one Peculiar Icarian.

 

With a name like that, they should have known he'd burn out. But he was young and clever and his imagination stat was off the charts. They kept him on booze and who knows what else, and he made monsters for his people like nobody's business. Apparently, he communed with the laws of reality in a way no one was supposed to, though you honestly don't know quite what that means. Either way, all thanks to the sparked-up mind of a maniac, some truly hopeless battles were won.

 

It wasn't until they tried to congratulate him that he even knew what he'd done. After that, there's not much else that can be found. He disappears further into classified information lost during the war, likely never to be found. There's more to the story, but you'll have to get it from somewhere else.

 

You'll have to get it from the source.

 

* * *

 

You were going to take a break from all of the extracurricular snooping, but this self-appointed case grips you too deep to follow up on that thought. You rarely thirst like this. You need to know what Pickle Inspector has done. What he saw. What he knew. What he could do, if he set his mind to it. If he even still can. Everyone has their secrets – you certainly had your own role in the war – but for someone like Pickle Inspector to have held such a high rank... you're intrigued. If he'd been on your own side, you'd likely have brushed lives with him, since you took part in a round of experimentation yourself. Not completely willingly, but that's beside the point.

 

You're getting dressed to go out and you're thinking about Pickle Inspector strapping you to a gurney, his eyes empty black buttons, his lips pursed thin as he considers you like a problem to be solved.

 

You fumble with your tie.

 

There's an odd heat in your brain. You lick your lips.

 

He'd wear one of those coats the lab boys did back on Derse, but in white. Your gut coils in anticipation. He'd look like a ghost.

 

You don't know where that idea came from. Something about this is making you feel strange. You fold up the thoughts like an old photograph and tuck them away.

 

It's clear that this interests you on a much less professional level than you previously thought. But that's just fine.

 

* * *

 

You decide it is time to engage with Pickle Inspector once again three months after Slick first scolded you. Things are back to normal.

 

Slick and Sleuth fight, they fuck now and then, you pretend not to notice. Pickle Inspector notices. It's hard not to, since Sleuth keeps picking up new scars and disappearing during work. Ace Dick (uuugh) notices as well, but his notice is much less quiet or nervous. His shouting matches with Sleuth end with one or both of them leaving the office in a huff, and more and more often Pickle Inspector is left alone.

 

You...

 

can appreciate that.

 

He's shifting papers around the floor with his foot (wearing socks, no shoes) when you deign to arrive, and he doesn't even look up at you when you darken his door. A full minute passes of shuffling and the soft hiss of paper on paper on cheap carpet. He looks up when you take a drag of your cigarette, his nose flared, his eyes wide. You say nothing.

 

“...h...h-hello,” He murmurs, like he knew this was coming.

 

“Hello.” You repeat, and close the door behind you.

 

* * *

 

You're gone by the time Sleuth comes back to apologize to Dick, who won't be back for another couple of minutes. How this team stays together you honestly don't know.

 

Or, you didn't. You do now.

 

You didn't even have to break his fingers. (Perhaps next time.) He sat down on his chair, you leaned against his desk, and he told you everything. You considered breaking his fingers for posterity, but decided against it. Mostly because of what they've done. They're too beautiful to just break like that. No, they deserve special attention.

 

His hands have touched death. His hands have negotiated treaties with old gods. His hands have remade the universe. His hands have scratched out Prospitian eyes. His hands have been bound by his own allies. His hands have wielded shadow magic.

 

* * *

 

You haven't been surprised in a long time, but you honestly are quite surprised.

 

You hadn't realized he'd had it in him. Shadow magic isn't for everyone, and it's rarely for Prospitians. It's got something to do with that dumb imagination stat. Turns out, too much of a good thing (if someone were going to call imagination a good thing, and that someone would _not_ be you) can kill you. Or your whole deep science team.

 

He survived because he was too deep in the magic to be in control of himself, acting as a conduit for ancient things better left uncontacted. But it was too late by then – the drugs, the alcohol, the Pickle Inspector, everything collided into a perfect storm that ravaged the facility he'd been held in.

 

And it had all been triggered by the knowledge that his beautiful dreams had been mined for weaponry to destroy the enemy, his explorations into the universe compiled in an attempt to remake the very laws of reality.

 

Prospit had been trying to change the outcome of the game.

 

Prospit had been trying to _cheat._

 

It's a little heartwarming to you, honestly. You can't blame Propsit for desperation, but the absurdity of it all...! It hadn't been enough to make a villain out of Derse. It hadn't been enough to claim a righteousness to the destiny of Prospit. Oh, no. They had tried to change fate itself to suit them. It was too wonderful to believe.

 

You wouldn't believe it, except he showed you.

 

Shadow magic leaves its mark on people, and Pickle Inspector is no exception. The bags under his eyes, he points out, are a much deeper violet than they should be. You can't really tell. You just incline your head, as if you can see what he means but aren't yet convinced.

 

And then he shows you. On his chest the scars remain, deep and knotted and grey, from where he tried to tear out his own heart.

 

It's almost too much. It's almost too wonderful. He sat there, shirt open, looking up at you like he'd never noticed you had a face before, and you touched his chest before you even knew what you were doing. He's an abomination. He's perfect.

 

You dug your fingers into the raised tissue and he winced, but he just kept staring at you, and you knew in that moment that this – whatever it was – had just begun.


	2. Chapter 2

You had planned on leaving Pickle Inspector alone for a while after that. Not long, just two weeks or so. Enough time for him to let his fears of your return (what you would do with your newly acquired knowledge, who you would tell) stew in him and boil over and then perhaps simmer a bit. Enough time for him to think that perhaps your curiosity was sated and you would leave him be.

 

At least, that is what you had planned.

 

What ends up happening goes something like this:

 

Two days after your little chat with Pickle Inspector, the Midnight Crew has a run-in with the Felt, who are complete idiots with few exceptions. Those few exceptions are not in full force tonight, which is in your favor because you prefer _not_ to engage with the Felt when Sn0wman is around.

 

(The thought of the end of the world doesn't frighten you so much as annoy you, for the record.)

 

Unfortunately for you, the Sleuths also show up, and by “show up” you mean “trap everyone in a stupid maze.”

 

You wander the halls with Die for a while, who is terrible and boring and tried to stab you once ( _once._ ) years ago. He gives you the googly eyes while you fiddle with a Rubik's cube door handle. He had attempted to use his pins to remove himself from the situation, but evidently being trapped with you in a dumb maze is preferable to whatever is happening in a parallel world where you are dead.

 

Which you find interesting, but only in the least interesting way possible.

 

In any case, you have been growing more and more frustrated with this door while Die pokes around behind you looking for another way out. Just when you think you have it figured out, the squares don't match up. It would probably be easier to solve this if you weren't colorblind.

 

“H-h-h-here,” Pickle Inspector says to your left, and you pretend you knew he was there all along. “...allow me.”

 

You do, stepping briefly aside, masking any surprise that might have shown in your body language. Die is watching you, a fact of which your awareness is comforting. Good to know your instincts only meaningfully fail you where Pickle Inspector is involved. Wonderful. Superb.

 

Pickle Inspector has the cube done before you can finish coming up with sarcastic comments to yourself, and he opens the door. Outside the door, Sleuth and Slick are slinging insults at each other and fists at Quarters and Crowbar, and you fight the urge to just leave them behind and go home because they look happier than you find appropriate. Perhaps you'll invite Pickle Inspector to come with you, for tea and a nice interrogation. That would be fun.

 

You turn to see what he's doing and it takes you a moment to make sense of what it is you're looking at. Not because you can't see it. You can see it perfectly clearly. It's just the fact that Pickle Inspector is crouched over Die and choking the plush asshole with his bare hands that confuses you.

 

You take another minute to observe. Yeah, that's definitely Die that Pickle Inspector is straddling. And yes, Pickle Inspector's hands are white-knuckled and tight around Die's velvety throat. Good to know.

 

“Business, or pleasure?” You ask, pacing over to join the scene as Die thrashes to no avail.

 

Pickle Inspector looks up at you, eyes wide and lips parted. That fails to answer your question. You adjust your estimation of him.

 

He looks at Die, who is trying to stutter out something, and then back to you. “...nnneed something,” He mutters, and when Die falls limp beneath him, Pickle Inspector examines him for a moment before running his hands down Die's lapels. He finds what he's looking for and palms it out of your sight, but you know what it is.

 

What you _don't_ know is why Pickle Inspector wanted Die's doll.

 

The inspector stands up and looks around with a vacancy in his eyes. His gaze fall on you and the haze of them clears long enough to realize who you are.

 

“Droog...” He whispers at you.

 

“Inspector,” You reply, and he quickly nods a greeting. He maintains a precise distance between the pair of you as he edges a circle towards the door he'd opened, but you do not move. Your failure to move means he must either blatantly attempt to go around you, or walk past you like a civilized person.

 

He does neither. He locks eyes with you and waits.

 

You tilt your head to look at him. He seems taller than usual, in this moment. Or perhaps you're just now realizing how tall he is. Usually he's folded over like a crumpled newspaper. At the moment, he's tall and slender as a pale shadow, and you could almost enjoy the way the light plays in his starlight-white curls.

 

You ask, “Why did you take Die's doll?”

 

And Die squeals, “You took my doll!”

 

Pickle Inspector flinches, turning just in time to accidentally step out of Die's way as he lunges for the inspector. In the process, Die falls into you. In the process of Die falling into you, he sees his death, and he is running out the door before you can even offer him a sneer.

 

“I'm going to get Crowbar,” Die calls back, “Y-you'll be sorry!” He sounds like he's crying as he says it. You are not entirely convinced you will, in fact, be sorry.

 

Pickle Inspector, in the meantime, has slunk away with the grace of a scrap of paper blowing in the breeze. He's moving towards some secret door he must have used to get in here, but you stop him with a firm hand on the bicep. Of course, by bicep you really mean shoulder, because as bony as his arm is, you doubt anyone would call it a bicep. Except a nerd. A nerd might. Anyway, you stop him cold because he freezes up, all Bambi in the headlights, and looks at you like you're gonna hurt him. The night's young, yet. For now though you want to know his plans. The sneer you didn't give to Die ends up with Pickle Inspector. He wilts a little.

 

“I d-don't wanna f-fight you,” He says, and he's right.

 

“Tell me why you took it.”

 

“We n-nnnneed, it.”

 

“Clearly,” you enunciate. The added syllables make him cringe. “Why?” He looks about to pop. He's going to cave, any second now.

 

* * *

 

 

He punches you right in the goddamn face.

 

 

* * *

 

The problem with Pickle Inspector is that every time you think you've got him figured out, he goes and does something unpredictably stupid, like stealing from the Felt right in front of them, or suckerpunching you. You're not sure he's a genius, but you're positive he's mad. And it's making _you_ a little mad.

 

Back at HQ at the end of the night, you're not quite sure why Pickle Inspector isn't waiting in one of your little club's cells waiting for you to pocket his eyeballs in between shoving him into furniture and fucking him through his pants. You want to pour brandy on his ass and set him on fire. You want to bite out his tongue.

 

“-you even listening? GodfuckinDAMNit Droog what the hell happened back there? I was gettin creamed out there and fuckin _Sleuth_ -”

 

He says it like _Slooth_ , like it's a cocktail with gin and vermouth and maybe a little candycorn hooch. You hate Sleuth so much.

 

“- _had to bail me out!_ That's what _you're_ supposed to be for! You're my crew for _fuck's sake!_ ”

 

Slick finishes his speech, having chewed on his words and you long enough to decide to wait for you to explain yourself. You give him the driest look down your nose you can muster. It's so dry it's a drought. If he were a plant he'd wither.

 

“Pickle Inspector jumped Die and stole his doll.” You reply. “I wanted to find out why.”

 

“And what, opened a door with your face on your way out? What the fuck happened to your eye?” He gives you another look. His lips tremble. “Wait, wait, wait a minute - did Pickle Investor seriously _lay one on you?_ ” He laughs towards the end of his thought. You can't blame him. The thought is laughable.

 

“Do you wanna hear about the doll or not.”

 

“Gimme a second,” Slick wheezes, and Boxcars is chuckling from where he's counting loot. “Hoooooo... I'm gonna tell Sleuth, he'll be so proud of his little dumbass.”

 

“Which one?” You hiss, utterly petulant, and Slick laughs for another minute before realizing you meant him.

 

* * *

 

Sleuth _is_ proud of his little dumbass. In fact, he's so proud that he takes time out of his busy day to come and find you sometime around three, the afternoon after Pickle punched you. You're looking a little better. Unfortunately, you have to give Sleuth a little credit when he manages to be nonchalant about the fact that he walks in on you rifling through the shit in his office. He doesn't even screech at you to stop. He just frowns and crosses his arms, leaning against the door frame. Maybe you're losing your touch. No one seems to be taking you very seriously anymore.

 

“Stay away from Pickle Inspector.”

 

The tilt of his fedora casts a shadow over his eyes, and his lips are firmly folded into a stern frown.

 

You give him a minute to think about how stupid he is.

 

* * *

 

There was a time not so long ago when the Personal Servitor took a wrong turn.

 

He was a delegate, pretty high up but still working his way through the ranks (in so far as a creature literally created to occupy a certain position _can_ work up through the ranks), for the losing side of the war. You never met him. You didn't have to. He still managed to leave his mark on your life. A stupid mark in the shape of a neurotic weirdo with metric oodles of shadowy magic pooling in the bags of his eyes, and mismatched socks. The socks aren't related to the shadowy magic. They just offend you on a personal level.

 

In any case, it so happened that one day Personal Servitor (or PS, as he was known to his friends) ended up walking through the high-tech high-clearance facility where spooky dumbasses wait to be discovered by pulchuritudinous assholes, and PS broke one Peculiar Icaran out of a holding unit and stashed him at the house of his unlikely BFF, Acerbic Debator. Way to go PS, you insurmountable douche. Way to go.

 

In the process of rescuing/kidnapping PI, PS and AD managed to somehow become friends with him, and they've been a trio of completely incompetent nincompoops ever since. It really grinds your gears to find out they have such a hardboiled backstory. You had assumed, like everything else about Problem Sleuth, that it was complete coincidence and awkward stupidity that had brought them together, and stubbornheaded nonsense that kept them together.

 

But no – their bonds were forged even before the war ended, and not because they were neighbors, or founded some stupid Prospitian anime club. There are blood debts and grimdark secrets involved.

 

You don't think you could ever hate Sleuth more than you do now.

 

* * *

 

Pickle Inspector isn't in his office, which is good because you'd hate to give him the extra time to escape while you beat the shit out of Problem Sleuth. It helps that it turns out he's actually kind of scared of you. It gives you a particular kind of satisfaction to know that he challenged you despite that fear, but you don't want to think about that. It's a little too... _spadey._

 

You shrug off that thought and go to find Pickle Inspector, who is much more valuable than you'd ever have guessed, and much more fascinating than you'd ever have dreamed.

 

* * *

 

It's possible that someone ( _Problem Sleuth_ ) warned Pickle Inspector you were coming, although how they got up to use the phone after you broke their clavicle is beyond you. He's tougher than he looks, you have to give him that. You'll also have to give him another visit later. But that can wait. Right now, you're standing outside Pickle Inspector's apartment, and he's not answering the door.

 

It's a shitty neighborhood. Inspecting pickles doesn't pay for much, you suppose. But it does buy solid deadbolts, because you're not shouldering this thing open.

 

You give him another moment to answer before you figure _that's enough_ , and get out your lockpicks and open up the case, pulling out the axe inside. It's not your usual style. But it seems thematically appropriate.

 

You take personal satisfaction in hefting it over your head and hacking down Pickle Inspector's front door.

 

Stepping over splinters, you listen for signs of life. It's impossible Pickle Inspector didn't hear that, even if he is a heavy sleeper, which you highly doubt. It's impossible for him not to know you're here.

 

And this is his home – you would know that even if you hadn't followed him to and from here on occasion. It's a mess, and full of jars of tea and candy and strange liquids you'd prefer not to contemplate. There are candles and paper in a dangerous configuration on the kitchen table, which is missing a leg that has been replaced by a stack of books. You wade through the chaos with an eye for booby traps and find only a dried husk of lemon peel and a tangled yo-yo.

 

You are going to sanitize him with a hose.

 

The apartment has three rooms. You started in the first, move past the bathroom, and end up in a bedroom with a small, single window and a mattress leaning up against the wall. The floor has been painted with what appears to be ink. You smell blood.

 

Pickle Inspector is sitting in the center of the intricate design, his legs folded up and his hands skimming over the wood of his floor. At certain points, he's left items that include a lock of hair (light), a handful of bullets (used), pieces from a boardgame (plastic cars and houses), and a paperweight with a preserved bat inside. In front of Pickle Inspector is Die's doll. He is surrounded by lit candles and empty bottles.

 

“...don't move...” He says softly, and so clearly you're certain he's not talking to you.

 

“You're meddling with horrorterrors?” You've seen enough of horrorterrors to know it's a stupid idea.

 

Pickle Inspector opens his eyes. They are a luminous white, glowing through the silvery curls of his hair. His lips are tinged oddly dark. When his tongue flicks out to wet them, it's an ashy grey.

 

“...nnno.” He hums, mouth cracking into a dry smile. “H-have a seat. If you interrupt this, we'll both r-regret, it.”

 

You're not one to take orders, but he's already moving his hands. You remain standing where you are and say nothing. It seems like that's good enough for him.

 

Pickle Inspector draws something out of his pocket. It shines in the light, sharp and straight. It's a pin, but not one of Die's. He holds it in his hand, closing his eyes, and whispers something horrible to the air. Things grow colder all around you, darker, and then the candles are the only lights left.

 

Pickle Inspector opens his eyes, which are more deeply set than you remember them being, and then you notice how very prominent his skull is. You can see it just below his freaky white skin, as if nothing sits between his flesh and his bone.

 

“ _Hello, Diamonds Droog._ ” Says a voice you've heard before, but never saying words. It's warm like shotgun rounds. It grips you around the throat like the rough kiss of a noose. “ _I'm surprised to see you here, like this._ ”

 

“I don't think anything surprises you.” You say to Death, and he smiles with Pickle Inspector's mouth.

 

“ _Not often._ ” He admits. “ _That's why I enjoy visiting with Pickle Inspector._ ”

 

You draw a small breath. “Friend of yours?”

 

He tilts Pickle Inspector's head, considering you with that smile. “... _something like that. We have... history._ ”

 

A heartbeat passes.

 

Then another.

 

Then, “ _Ah! You win again. Next time, I think... you won't be so lucky._ ”

 

Pickle Inspector's face shifts into something less skeletal, and he gasps, eyes shut tight. You realize then that he hadn't been breathing. He coughs, grinning. “A-ah... no, I think not. Death comes in threes, after all.”

 

He sits up a little straighter now and holds the pin between his hands, the point welling beads of blood in his palm. It drips down over the body of the pin, coating the metal. It goes black and then white-hot, waking up, screaming with light. You have to close your eyes, and even then you can still see it burned behind your eyelids.

 

When you open them again, Pickle Inspector is holding a smoking straight pin in one hand and Die's doll in the other. He jams them together so hard the pin goes through the doll and into his palm. He doesn't seem to mind. In fact, there is a gleam in his eyes, and his teeth are so very white. You can see the dull color of his gums. He disappears in a flash, the scent of cheap chocolate and medicinal alcohol left behind.

 

You observe the space where the detective once was, your heart a constant thrum in your ears.

 

You could stop this now. It wouldn't be hard.

 

You can see a a smudge of soot and glitter where Pickle Inspector just was. The plastic smell of candy and the strong varnish of booze has faded, the tang of ozone still hanging in the air. It hits you like the velvet-gloved slap of a beautiful dame. You feel a thought arriving from the distance. You let it come to you.

 

_You can fix him. You can make him right._

 

You're not sure about that. But you are sure that Pickle Inspector has been poorly constructed. He is a mess. You hate messes.

 

But...

 

You turn, looking into the quiet disaster of his kitchen. You look back into the bedroom, bare except for eldritch scrawl.

 

_He could be..._

 

A smile tugs over your mouth, and you just can't help it. The most dangerous man in the city, the entire world, maybe the entire universe, is trapped in the body of an utter dingus.

 

The inspector has death inside him. And you're going to set it free.

 

* * *

 

The next time you see Pickle Inspector, you are watching the floor show at your second-favorite club when a bouncer drags the inspector to your table. Both of them seem uncomfortable, and although the specifics of their reasons might be different, the core of their discomfort is you. You motion, and Pickle Inspector is deposited on the bench seat. He ogles at you.

 

“Wh-wh-wh-wh-”

 

You reach over and slap him. He ogles you further still.

 

“Be quiet.” You murmur, and he whimpers. Now you're frowning. “...why do you act like this?”

 

“...I-I don't, understand,” the inspector replies, holding his cheek. He looks like he might start crying. You sneer.

 

“You persist in acting as if you're a useless slob, when I know for a fact you are not. Just the other evening, you brought a woman back from the dead.”

 

Pickle Inspector flinches.

 

You lean back, your thigh touching his, and you stare at him. He seems even more uncomfortable beneath your direct attention. You wonder how much attention it will take before he breaks for you.

 

“She didn't seem terribly grateful.” You add, motioning to the stage, where the former wife of Ace Dick is flashing a set of large fans over her body.  You suppose those martial vows  _were_ only binding 'until death did they part.' _Heh._

 

“I-I... I...” He swallows. He swallows again. You watch his throat bob. He watches the reanimated woman on the stage twirl beneath the lights. “I d-did it for h-him, nnot her,”

 

“For your friend?” You ask, and he nods. You trace your hand along the back of the bench seat, your side pressing against Pickle Inspector's. In your booth, upstairs, in your second-favorite club, no one can see the two of you. And even if they could, no one would stop you. No one could.

 

You smile. “No.”

 

Pickle Inspector does his best to look at you without twisting in your grip. He stares up at you with his big, dark eyes, and you feel a thrill deep in your legs. You want to chase him. He wants to run.

 

“You did it for yourself. You _like_ playing god.” You say, and you know it's true.

 

Pickle Inspector's breaths are shallow, as if he's been wounded. His lips move but words fail to rise from his slender, milky throat. You lean in closer. He's crumpled up against your side, and by this point, he can feel as much as see your smile.

 

“How did it feel, to let Death in your skin?”

 

He shudders. He doesn't look away from you. In fact, his eyes are locked onto yours.

 

“...full,” He croaks.

 

Your smile widens. You touch your tongue to the back of your canine teeth, one and then the other.

 

“Do you feel empty, inspector?”

 

Pickle Inspector closes his eyes, drawing another shuddering breath. Something like contempt rises within you, warm and languid, settling in your skull. You can smell his fear. And something else, something much more interesting. What a fool. He has power enough that there is no small part of you certain he could kill you (and everyone else in the bar) without getting up. Why is he afraid? What does he have to be afraid of?

 

Something in him stalls. He won't look at you, he won't answer your question. You search his face. He's trembling. His lips move, but you don't quite hear him.

 

“Speak _up,_ inspector.” Your murmur threatenously.

 

“Y-yes,” He chokes, barely looking at you. His eyes are wet. “...I do.”

 

You're going to tear him apart.

 

And afterwards, maybe you'll put him back together into something a little more pleasant to look at.

 

* * *

 

“ _Droog!_ ” Spades Slick screams at the top of his lungs at the top of the stairs. “ _Get your ass up here!_ ”

 

You lower your scalpel and the man on the table squirms in his restraints. He makes a noise around the rubber bit in his mouth.

 

“ _Now!!!_ ”

 

You can hear the extra exclamation points. Whatever it is that's upsetting Slick, he's going to make it your problem. The man on the table sighs while you put your hair back in order. “Don't worry,” You promise, patting his shoulder. He flinches away from you. “I'll be back.”

 

For some reason, this does not soothe him.

 

Spades Slick is upstairs, leaned over a pool table. There's a newspaper opened up across it and some of its leaflets are scattered across the floor. Slick glares over his shoulder at you. “You've got something on your shirt.” He sneers, simply because he knows it will bother you. “Something else on your mind besides work?”

 

You glance down. There is a speckle of blood on the rolled-up cuff of your sleeve. You're not sure how you didn't notice that before. You're not sure how Slick noticed it at all. You glance up at him, but he's already engaged with the newspaper again.

 

“You said to hurry,” You reply, smooth as cheap plastic. Your teeth feel brittle enough to break from how tight you're gritting them.

 

Slick turns, newspaper in his hands. “Look at this,” He growls, and you do.

 

It's Pickle Inspector.

 

He's gone missing.

 

You look up at Slick, expression utterly bland. “...yes?”

 

“I _know_ you've been stalking the guy,” Slick snarls at you, “You're telling me you didn't see anything?”

 

“I will look into it.” You reply, and Slick rolls his eye.

 

“Uh-huh, sure, yeah. _Look into it._ Sleuth will owe me forever if we bring him back his loser.” He runs his tongue over his teeth, and you do not hide your disdain. “Who've you got down there, anyway?”

 

“Alacritous Smuggler.” He's been known for the past few months as a man who can get anything rare into the city, without paying the tax owed to the Midnight Crew. You would have dealt with him earlier, but you were... distracted.

 

“Fuckin' hate that guy!”

 

“I know.” You reply, and head back downstairs to finish flaying the smuggler's legs. Let's see how fast he runs things past your crew after that.

 

* * *

 

There are many prices the inspector pays for the peculiarities of his lifestyle, the depths of the oddities of his nature. His strange existence, teetering on unsustainable, devours his vitality. He possesses a weakness of the body that verges on laughable. You shove him anywhere, and he stays there, shaking like a leaf. Bruises form so quickly on him you have to wonder if he has any blood. You bite him, and you find out just as quickly that he does.

 

Another weakness is an awareness that costs him much in the games he plays against you, though by some strange power you cannot account for he seems to recoup ground here and there. Perhaps it is his imagination, which in his more delirious moments he claims to you is quite powerful. You believe him. In his more lucid moments, he falls quiet, and the air around you smells vaguely of artificial sweetener. You're not concerned, however. He is _far_ from drunk enough to actually use his power.

 

You know this because you're drying him out.

 

Like a dying fish, or a flower to be preserved, you watch him as he wilts. His hands are tied, and his body and his mind are completely at your mercy. You do not speak often, and when you do, it is scathing and terrible and he flinches from the sound. You speak softly and touch him softly (when you're not bruising or biting or shoving or slapping him), though he avoids it as if it burns him.

 

Or, so he would like it to appear, for at first he ducked away, and now, well into the process you've begun, he seeks it when it is offered, head hung low and lips parted for air, white mess of curls damp over his face. He doesn't see you anymore unless you force him to, and so of course you do.

 

You do not have an imagination stat to be spoken of, but you can see the power he has draining from him with every shuddering breath. This is exactly what you want. His fantasy world has a stronger hold on him while he's inebriated, and while that serves him well, it does not help you.

 

No, what you want him is aware – of his surroundings, of himself. You want him to _look_ and to _see_ what he _truly_ is. You want him to _know_ how many of your kind his dreams have murdered.

 

You will have him recognize what he has done to himself and what you really are. And you want it to destroy him.

 

You want to taste the moment he breaks, see it in his eyes, and you know, with the anticipation of the predator that you are, that the moment is coming.

 

It's only a matter of time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the end. 
> 
> The sequel was going to focus on what Pickle Inspector was doing this whole time (and how much of an unreliable narrator Diamonds Droog is) and then go into what happens next, but it's much more worldbuild-y, so I'd need to sit longer with the canon to fix it up. I have the first chapter done, but the whole thing would be longer than this was. And that's a lot of work for what's probably a sleeping fandom I'm not really in anymore. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. Feedback is always appreciated.
> 
> EDIT: There is a sequel now.


End file.
